The Horror/Honor of Needing People

After special needs week at my favorite summer camp, we were in the midst of group debriefing when someone began his story with something like: "Despite the fact that these people have been dealt a horrible hand, they are still cheerful..." I don't remember what else he said because I got all hung up on the word "horrible." What was so horrible about needing help with things? Even things like going to the bathroom. Or what was so horrible about smiling all the time? Or what was so horrible about occasionally bursting out in shouts or song? Or what was so horrible about pacing a lot, and needing to be calmed down by other people? These situations are not average, of course. But were they horrible?

We're afraid to need each other. We're afraid to have to bear ourselves in the most vulnerable way, like needing to be helped in the bathroom.

As we told stories at the end of the week, I know several of us were surprised that the sights and smells of the bathroom did not repulse us more. I know we were surprised that we felt incredible accomplishment, and incredible humility after helping to wipe another person. It's a matter for gratitude to the one in need that we were able to be so materially helpful, so intimately trusted.

Each of those most vulnerable people are able to bestow upon their helpers a valuable gift which cannot be repaid. Who is greater in the Kingdom? The person who has no choice but to be vulnerable (like widows and orphans in a patriarchal society, or the meek, poor in spirit, persecuted, Matthew 5), because God says he will personally plead their case, bless them, give them the earth for an inheritance; or the one helping the vulnerable person, like the good Samaritan, who fulfilled the requirements of the Kingdom by loving his neighbor as himself?

We have to become like little children, Jesus said, trusting implicitly. We have to acknowledge how we cannot help ourselves, and smile up at our Father, and say, "thank you for wiping me."

To be honest, just writing that makes me uncomfortable. But... vulnerable ≠ horrible, in fact, it may be the opposite in light of eternity.

February Forgotten

I just read a journal entry from camp last summer. I was expressing my frustration with a camper in my cabin. Mara had an appointment and had to leave camp for a few hours on Wednesday afternoon. Wednesday is always the hardest day, because it's the middle of the week, and we have the most activities that day, including camp-out. She had been homesick all week, crying at intervals, trying to participate occasionally, but she simply couldn't rise above it for more than an hour or two.

She left with her mother for the appointment on Wednesday afternoon. Just as I anticipated, in the evening her mother came back to pick up her things, announcing that Mara was finished for the week. Mara stayed in the car while her mother collected her sleeping bag and toothbrush and bathing suit. I was so frustrated with her mother: this is a classic case of enabling. She was giving her an out instead of telling her how strong she was, that she could certainly do this. Now the girl would have to wait until later to discover her own strength.

Let me bring this together: February of this year was my Wednesday. If I had had an out, I would have taken it: a different job, a vacation to Luxembourg. I found myself telling God that he needed to DO something. I felt so hopeless, purposeless, and TIRED. I wrote this poem then:

We forget

The end of February:
the slack damp girds our hearts;
we forget why we came.

We wait
with bated breath.
If your grace does not provide,
We shall have no recourse but to dive out, very far, for hope.

Today, we're undeniably into March. The sun is shining, and I placed a hyacinth in the open window of the office. There it is. February seems like a lifetime away. I know it is God who does this. He doesn't usually pick us up and take us home mid-week, despite our tears and threats. Perhaps merely "February" is a sissy example. Let me assure you, I've been through harder times... But it's not about the superlative nature of a trial. It's about Thursday, after camp-out, when you get a midday nap, and realize how lovely the woods are today, and you're ready to run hard during the evening games.

March, bring it.

Reflections on Moving

What am I reading right now? The Shepherd's Castle by George MacDonald; The LMH staff Handbook; the Gospel of John.

My mom came to pick me up from camp on Sunday morning. I finally knew how all the campers felt when their parents picked them up each Saturday morning. Relief mingled with a feeling of somehow not being finished. They would longingly look back, waving, cherishing a vague feeling that camp was still going on, even with no campers.

We moved things from camp to the dorm, then from 409 (my former residence) to the dorm. It was a long day which culminated in a dinner with Brian and Lachelle, who inhabit the downstairs advisors' apartment. All the same, I went to bed with a dissatisfied, empty feeling in my stomach.

I can tell that as I go through changes in location and responsibilities, I am getting better at accepting them. But you must understand that I used to be really, really bad at accepting change. I mean, bad. If someone turned a figurine to the side in my room, I could sense it. Save your OCD jokes. I'm not diagnosed. The point is, I'm improving. And I like change. I feel alive and awake and scared all at once.

Everywhere I look, there's something I could buy to add to my apartment. One of my goals in life is to live simply. Sometimes that means forgetting that there is an easier way if I only had a ________, and making do with what I already have. Besides, I like to be somewhat dependent upon people around me for things. What kind of relationship can you build with people if neither of you need each other for anything?

I don't know. I'm going outside.

Nearing

Camp is nearing the end.

Foley Stromboli night has just passed. Camp affirmations have just finished with a Tim Tam Slam Fest. God is good. He's been good this summer. More details later. That should be sufficient for now.

Midsummer Days

It's been so good. Mini-week was full of adorable little kids. So little. So lovable. The week is so short, since the children are so young. But it was enough for me. It was difficult to always be hung upon and questioned. I found myself occasionally yearning for teen week. We happened to play a game (called Bug-Bug) in which half the camp ends up "dead" on the far side of the ballfield. The rest of the camp must carry or drag the "dead bugs" to the other side of the field. It is a wretched, hot game to play. I found myself yearning for teen week as I lay dead under the bushes. Small children came up to me, lifted one of my legs, then dropped it, quickly deciding that I was too much for them to muster.

Mid-camp break began when mini-week ended. On Wednesday, the little children headed home for much-needed naps, and we went (napless) to Camp Andrews for a relaxing Wednesday night and Thursday. We spent the day loving their climbing equipment, and their beautiful creek, and their hidden caves, and their pool. On Friday, Black Rock treated us to a day at Hershey Park!

It rained in the afternoon. We left for Chocolate World after waiting unsuccessfully (in the rain) for an hour in line for Fahrenheit. Everyone was in Chocolate World. You could have lost a limb in the crowd and not known it til much later. We eventually returned to the main park and rode a few more roller coasters, including Fahrenheit. The best part of the day was the companionship of the people. Camp contains the combination of people where you can never go wrong, no matter how you slice it. There is no boring, or lame, or undesirable group. I know because I'm sitting in a room full of them right now. They're practicing swing dance, throwing tape at each other, practicing a skit about Cupid shooting people (to advertise archery), tripping over large white boxes, and smelling strange because they were canoeing all day... actually, the last is just me.

We're preparing for teen week, folks. Tomorrow the older kids come. And it will be so good.

Walking to Devotions This Morning

After rain,

His glory:

shafts of light--

because the mist is so thick,

that we swim through the forest

as we walk.

Drip-

Drop.

Camp Staff

Nothing is like living at camp. I tell my campers at the beginning of the week to watch the way the staff interact with one another. Listen to the way they speak to one another. They don't over-compete. They apologize. They encourage each other. They work together as a matter of course. Every job can be made fun. The Kingdom come.

4th and 5th Grade Week One

• Girls have cooties
• Bedtimes are 8pm
• Attention spans are 10 minutes at best
• Missing Mom, Dad, and dog
• "Pharoah, Pharoah"

Special Week

As we near the end of special week, each cabin writes about one of the events we did together.

What I wrote:

Wilderness time for the ladies of Cardinal B was a hoot! Dee Dee listened next to her friend Nora as the wilderness directors explained the function of rabbit fur. Jessica took pictures of the animals, exclaiming about the many facts she knew about each animal. She snapped a few shots as best friends Willianne and Faye cuddled the rabbit, Amelia. Bobby didn’t seem to mind the fur sticking to her shirt at all! Later, each lady touched the gecko and the bearded dragon! Amanda bravely petted Timmy the turtle, who had risen from the depths of his little pond. Sandy petted Amelia. She whispered to the rabbit as Ameila settled into her gentle grasp.

What actually happened:

Dee Dee stared silently. She sat next to Nora. Jessica took pictures and commented on the furriness of rabbits. Willee and Faye cuddled the rabbitt... til the rabbit "scratched" Willee. (It was actually a scar that had been on her arm for a long, long time). Bobby touched the rabbit. Amanda petted Timmy. Sandy ran out of the class after petting the rabbit, going for the glass door. She missed the door and went for the glass wall, thereby bruising and cutting her left leg slightly. The rest of the afternoon I spent in one-on-one time with Sandy, telling the nurses about her leg, which warranted a single band-aid.

Pre-Camp

Today was a beautiful, windy day at camp. We are a week into pre-camp training. We began today day with first aid training: Check. Call. Care. Passed!

Then a rare opportunity arose for the majority of the staff to use their free time to go into town to buy essentials. While in this process, I ran into, not one, but two former campers of mine whose names I forgot on the spot! (Tina and Taylor, I am so sorry.)

A few things: The staff are so beautiful! I can already see the Kingdom come in our interactions. Next week is special week. My co-counselor is tops. It's gonna be a fun-fun time.

For purposes of writing to me:

Carolyn McKalips

c/o Black Rock Retreat

1235 Kirkwood Pk.

Quarryville, PA 17566

Post-Camp Letter to Myself

Some explanation: The letter below just arrived in the mail today. I now recall my feelings at the end of camp. My exhaustion was bordering on that hopeless feeling one gets when one imagines that all her efforts were for naught. Elijah's reaction after God's victory at Mt. Carmel comes to mind. He was so tired, fleeing, homeless, ready for rest; and he came to God in the attitude of despair which was all he could muster, "I have had enough, Lord." 1 Kings 19. And how does God react to fugitives that ask to be killed off before their pursuers succeed? Oh--That is the God I love!

I often feel hopeless during transitional times of life. This letter is continuing the conversation.

_____________________

Dear Me,

Some things shouldn't be forgotten. Your God has been faithful here at Black Rock. Without any preparation, few decorations, and no idea what faith would look like, I came here. I had had a year of academic difficulty and had become frazzled, disconnected, busy. But during pre-camp training, the Lord spoke to me. Oh Lord, it wasn't a prepared heart, a full resume that You wanted. You wanted me.

I gave You my all this summer. The whole cup is drained. 71 young girls plus 6 women have camped at my cabin. I was hostess, sister, mommy, planner, pastor, massage therapist, teacher. Each week, I know their lives were changed. They may or may not have communicated their appreciation. I know it was done in Your Name, Jesus. If exhaustion is any indication, this summer was beautiful. And it was.

Risk it.

Love,

Me then.

1 John 2:14

How Shelby and I Met: A True Story

Shelby's grandmother is beset with Schloppinger's disease, a debilitating, strange disease, which has caused her to lose the use of both arms. Her greatest joy amidst her biplegic life is calling in to win radio contests. Of course, she can't dial, so she has a caretaker make the calls for her. Her whole family scoffed at her silly hobby until she won two tickets to visit Northern Ireland. She was delighted to invite Shelby, who had dialed many a call-in radio program for her. What's more, one of her good friends lived there, whom she had not seen in ages: a Mr. Rochester.

Meanwhile, I was studying in Northern Ireland for my doctoral thesis on bedflies, also known as noctororum scoliorum. I was hiking with my handicapped friend, also a sufferer of Schloppinger's. We were headed to Mussenden Temple to explore the ruins of the burnt castle which an older, insecure bishop had built for his young, beautiful wife. The ruins of the castle are surrounded by a large ditch which had possibly served as a moat in the past.

While exploring, I began to need a bathroom urgently. The only thing to use was the moat. I looked about for a person on patrol who might deter the necessary act. The only thing my eyes lit upon was a battered sign that read: BEWARE, SHEEP GRAZING. I knew, just as I'm sure you do, that certain breed of sheep can spell peril to those who are so unfortunate as to be caught staring upward into their eyes. Looking down upon a sheep means little, however, for they assume you to be their superior. Due to my weighted bladder, I meant to risk it, whatever the cost.

Just as I emerged from the wide ditch, there was a girl of about my age, staring in disbelief at my impertinence. She assumed, quite correctly, that I had used the moat as a bathroom. "Didn't you see the sign?!" She pointed, eyes wide. I tensed immediately, on guard for the sheep attack. She saw my look of panic and assumed a fighting stance as well, believing me to have seen some raucous sheep activity headed in our direction.

Seeing nothing, she saw the root of our misunderstanding, and pointed to the sign of which she had meant to accuse me. Directly beside me was a sign which read: ABSOLUTELY NO PEEING IN THE MOAT. We both laughed, eased by our mistake, and made introductions. We were mutually impressed by our immediate fighting reactions, but our conversation was cut short by the needs of our handicapped companions.

Some days later, we were destined to meet again! While studying, I was staying at the home of a friend named Jane. She told me of her admiration of her employer, a man named Mr. Rochester; indeed, the very same Rochester with whom Shelby's grandmother was so closely acquainted. So it fell that at a dinner party hosted by Rochester, Jane and I were to be in attendance. Who else should grace the table but Shelby and her biplegic grandmother!

While taking a tour of the large Rochester mansion, a castle, to be sure, Shelby and I finished the conversation from the moat days earlier. So deep in our thoughts were we that we became dreadfully lost in the place. We headed eastward in the mansion, toward voices which we supposed to belong to our friends. How wrong we were!

We trod up a staircase, much worn and quite small, believing it to be the servants' entrance to the hallway near the dining room. We heard laughter: at times faint, then quite loud, then a good deal of talking. But as we approached, all seemed to be coming from one voice, and that not of our friends at all. We assumed our sheep-fighting stances, and tried the door, only to find it locked.

At this, disappointed and relieved, we decided upon an alternate route which finally brought us to our friends who had hardly noticed our disappearance. Rochester was the exception, for he seemed to note our pale faces and breathless entrance. He kept a close eye on us for the rest of the evening, fidgeting more than before, and ushered us out long before the appropriate time of departure for family friends.

With these two singular experiences behind us, Shelby and I were forced to part once more. She and her grandmother were headed back to Pennsylvania, while I stayed in the area for some months more. When I returned to Pennsylvania, Shelby and I met up again at Millersville University: I with my doctorate, naturally, and with a slightly redder haircolor, a common effect of working with bedflies, the notable result of my research.

Wouldn't you know it! We read in the paper just days after meeting again that our friends, Jane and Mr. Rochester had been in love. But those strange voices we had heard in the night had belonged to MRS. Rochester! Mr. Rochester had married a crazed woman many years ago, and had kept her in the far east tower all that time!

Now, just as we told our group of nine middle-schoolers on camp-out night, if you google "Jane and Rochester," you're sure to find the newspaper articles which we found to be so disturbing. For our part, Shelby and I are still divided as to the appropriateness of the relationship which Mr. Rochester had allowed to ensue despite his lawful marital status.

Two Lists

Things that are the same:

God is good.

My head is full.

Things that are different:

My heart is not worried, just broken.

My cabin is so diverse! I know that we will be working through lots of difficulties this week. I'm exhilarated by the possibilities.

Camp is quickly coming to an end.

I'm headed to Ohio on my birthday!

Squirrels make me downright uncomfortable.

I am super emotional. This is rare. Normally my emotions are a few levels down. Just look at me wrong and I might cry.

Outpost

We play a game here called Outpost. Red flag belts versus blue flag belts. Each team is searching for the other teams large flags, and pulling opposing colored flag belts. There are four ranks: one general for each team, five lieutenants, colonels, privates. All are worth a different number of points if captured. The lieutenants, for example are 25 points, the privates are 5 points. The best strategy for lieutenants is to simply hide and try not to be captured. Then there are flag-bearers; assassins who don't wear belts and pull only the flag-bearers; then mercenaries who the generals buy to pull flag belts.

The privates and colonels stay together to pull flags and to scout for the flag-bearer.

Easy? Sure. EXCEPT that it takes place at night! I was a lieutenant whose ankle hurt. I ended up running stealthily through the woods, falling into a ditch, and remaining hidden there for the last 25 minutes of the game. While in hiding, I let my imagination take over and I tried to remember all the war stories I had ever read. I thought of Born on the Fourth of July, and All Quiet on the Western Front. And you know what? I can see how little boys love to pretend fight.

From the First Teen Week

From Monday morning, I was pretty certain that each of the nine girls in my cabin were leaders, "Gamma Girls" as one article calls them: young women who do not need the approval of their peers to know and do what is right; they are happy, interesting, busy, involved. They are less susceptible to peer pressure due to their own self-control and inner contentment.

All nine girls led the way in everything. We danced, we laughed, we had generally the best week of my life. They loved worship time and decided to be the last ones dismissed each night if we could do it.

During my last one-on-one time late Friday night, we walked around the main camp area. Aubrey had not spoken much of her own accord throughout the week. She mostly relied on her best friend Kari who was also in the cabin. But when we were alone, she finally had a million questions. She wondered about Satan and his fall from heaven (a strange, sticky story, if you ask me); she wondered how she could be right with God. She had kept all her precious thoughts to herself all week. Many of her questions had been addressed during our evening services or during our cabin discussions. But the answers had gone over her head.

I tried to bring the gospel down from its lofty heights to the very ground we were now sitting on. Every time I explain God's love for us in Jesus, I get butterflies. The concepts of grace and justice and forgiveness had been fluttering over my head, too. And when I finally took them down to hold them, they became dear and real again.

Aubrey recommitted her life to Jesus on Friday night. She wants her Sin to be Forgiven. She had asked Jesus into her life before, but she has not been discipled in the interim, and she didn't understand anymore. I wish I could say that my head wasn't drooping before the end of our conversation. She had so much more to tell me. She is a writer. She's in the midst of authoring a mystery novel. She is an adventurer. She is not afraid of anything the ropes course can throw at her, she is not afraid of new places, of new people. She loves to tell stories. She loves to be in theater.

I say "Weekend" you say "WooHOO!"

Middle schoolers came this past week. I had a cabin who didn't enjoy discussing deeper subjects. It was so difficult to draw them out, that I almost cried after our evening cabin time on Tuesday night! By campout night on Wednesday, I made a few discoveries: they just weren't the kind of people to talk about their hearts in a big group. They just weren't. And I couldn't make them fit a mold of my expectations.

So we went star-spinning in the ballfield Wednesday night. We laughed til we were tired, then walked through the darkness back to our campsite. Some of the girls were so scared! I loved it.

During our one-on-one times, away from the group and their stilted dynamics, I felt that I really began to know them; and they are such precious girls. I wish even now that they could return next week. This is notable, because for all other weeks, I felt no such inclination of actual friendship developing. Our relationships til last week were something like maternal leadership.

On Thursday, during my first game of Drop Zone, I rolled my ankle. It's still swollen and angry, but I think it'll be ready for running by mid-next week. That is, after the mini-week campers (second- and third-graders) leave, of course. Oh, how I love the weekend!

Forging a Life of Less Sleep: Fourth and Fifth Grade Weeks

Camp moves quickly. Builders for God were here this week. They did so much, almost imperceptibly. The camp looks so beautiful. Time for a visit? Think about it.

A full quarter of the staff are feeling ill in some way or another. I have a persistent cough. Some of us are fatigued. I can tell that I've given it my all, and I am proud of it. This afternoon I slept for three full hours and awoke to Becky standing in my doorway! A lovely surprise.

My two groups of girls over the last two weeks could not have differed more. The first week, they were mostly all 11-year-olds. They were boy crazy, self-conscious, self-aware, hesitant to get too deep in a group for fear of being called weak for vulnerability. Individually, they were able to get a little deeper. The girls with whom I had one-on-one time all come from difficult home lives. Kay's father left them on her birthday this year. She has night terrors if she doesn't journal before going to sleep.

Four years ago, Kira found her newborn sister dead in her crib. She has been in counseling ever since. She and her mom go to visit the baby's grave every month. Every month! I was crying by the end of her story. But she seems to be unaware of her stinted healing. She is not moving on.

Reilly is one of ten children. She is right in the middle and proclaimed by all to be the most mature of all the kids. She cleans constantly for fear that she will lose her standing as the most behaved child.

It's difficult to get serious with people who are eleven years old in a group. But they sober right up when it's just the two of you.

This week, my cabin was all ten-year-olds. They did not sober right up when we were one-on-one. Some of their stories were challenging. But they as a group were the challenge. They had constant energy. When Christyn and I would wake up for our personal devotion time at 6:30am, we saw six or seven heads pop up and look about. They ran on less than seven hours of sleep every night. (Note "ran"). And we both went to bed later and woke up earlier than they. Not. Fair.

Middle schoolers come next week. Pray that the coughing will end and that we'll be ready to give a new set of everything.

Special Week

I get blogging opportunities far less here at camp than at home. Last week was special week, people with special needs, all with mental disabilities. Here is an excerpt from my journal:

"How do I record so many new experiences? Lana is an adult with Down's Syndrome. She is so quiet and full of sweetness. It's as if she knows all the secrets of the Kingdom, all the secrets of happiness.

"She speaks softly. She lets the leaves on the bough above her dance. And dance. And in her heart, I think she is dancing, too; because her smile is wonder to me. Her hugs draw me close and she plants a kiss on my cheek. She is trusting me with all she has.

"Linda mutters during naptime. She has multiple personalities and maybe Down's Syndrome. She knows how to o everything regarding her own hygiene and she keeps track of others' whereabouts. She can understand various, more complex subjects. Her conversation tells me this. Yet--where is her peace? Oh Lord, she does not have the same apparent simplicity as Lana. So where does she rest?"